


bleeding in and out like it's breathing

by Neurotoxia



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Emotionally Repressed, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, M/M, Panic Attacks, Protective Steve Rogers, Tony Stark Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-09 23:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8916793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia
Summary: panic attack (ˈpænɪk əˈtæk; noun): A sudden overwhelming feeling of acute and disabling anxiety. Stark men don’t have ‘panic attacks’, and certainly not over something as insignificant as Steve being late.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [viennasunrise (kteaanne)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kteaanne/gifts).



> Many thanks to [Politzania](http://polizwrites.tumblr.com/), [crookedspoon](http://crookedteaspoon.tumblr.com/) and [Lazywriter7](http://lazywriter7.tumblr.com/) for beta assistance!

Tapas in the fridge? Check. Bottle of red wine supplied by the Tapas restaurant’s sommelier resting in the wine fridge? Check. Sinfully expensive bath salts? Check. Lavender massage oil? Check. Queue of 1950s movies curated by JARVIS? Check.

Tony is a man with a plan and for once it’s not thrown together at the last minute. He even listened to the alarm JARVIS set for him in order to to finish up work and get a shower. Once Steve gets home, JARVIS will start drawing a bath for him. He will be tense after the long mission and -- grumble all he might about Tony’s penchant for expensive personal hygiene products -- he likes Tony’s collection. Tony has made sure they were restocked, particularly the orange and ginger made with Himalayan salt. 

While Steve has that bath, Tony will get the wine and tapas ready so they’re at perfect temperature when it’s time for the movie. Steve has recently discovered Akira Kurosawa’s oeuvre and they’ve been working their way through it. Today is Ikiru. Terminal illness is never a light topic, but Steve will appreciate the uplifting message in the movie. It always hits pretty close to home for Tony -- a dying man trying to do good with what little time he has left. Lavender massage oil for a good foot and calf rub for Steve while they watch the movie in the living room in Tony’s penthouse. Most of the other Avengers are out anyway and Tony hasn’t been feeling sociable.

His nightmares have flared up again, and with Steve away on a mission, Rhodey back on a tour in god knows where and Pepper on holiday, Tony has no go-to options. He’s not eager to share his fucked-up mental state with the rest of the team any more than what they already know. Who knows what file Natasha is compiling at any given time.

Tony has been running on coffee (and that caffeine tablet he dissolved in his coffee this morning. Steve would have his head if he knew), sleep deprivation and anxiety awaiting Steve’s return. Captain America has been on some super secret hush-hush mission involving Hydra, and Tony has seen neither hide nor hair of him for two weeks. SHIELD issued a communications blackout, banning any trackable devices to protect Steve and the agents from detection. Rumour has it that Hydra has cuddled up to Hammer to upgrade their tech and while Tony can only scoff at that junkyard company upgrading anything into picking up on Tony’s signals, Fury doesn’t find it quite as laughable. Tony hates it when he can’t track Steve on missions.

Tony rubs his hand over the seam of the arc reactor casing against his skin and stares at the clock. Steve is due back today. They were supposed to track shipments of illegal materials, with the last one set to arrive last night. SHIELD has no information on delays – while Tony may not be able to track Steve, he can hack SHIELD servers in his sleep. JARVIS keeps an eye on communications, screening for Steve’s name, his aliases and the names of the agents with him, but there’s been nothing. No debriefing information either yet.

JARVIS’ analysis of Steve’s previous missions indicates that Steve usually returns between five and nine pm and since Steve’s phone has been lying on the nightstand, Tony won’t know Steve is back until he’s inside the tower. Tony hates not knowing. 

He flips through the tv channels for a while, tries to watch a baseball game and fails. He will never understand what Steve sees in baseball – it’s dreadfully boring. Steve’s dragged him to games a few times, but Tony will freely admit that each of those times, he’s spent more time watching Steve or mentally redesigning the stadium than pay attention to the men hitting balls with sticks on the field. Different seatings, easier access to the refreshments and colour schemes that doesn’t look like they were picked by an addled chimpanzee. And what is it with the baseball diamonds? Why is it that they never manage to make them exactly alike? How’s that fair?

Tony’s going stir crazy in the penthouse once another hour passes. There’s nothing to occupy him, nowhere to put his restless energy.

The workshop seems to be the wisest course of action: Tony always has a project going on, always something to tinker with. It’s either the workshop or doing something drastic like taking apart the tv -- and Steve doesn’t appreciate Tony ‘improving’ the household electronics.

Workshop it is.

* * *

Steve is late.

Technically, he isn’t. There’s no time he’s due back. If he came in at 11:59 he’d still be on time. Technically.

_Son of a bitch._

Tony hisses in pain, shaking his hand to relieve the sting. He needs to stop soldering when his mind is elsewhere. And when his hands tremble just that tiny bit. The urge to just throw the iron across the workshop is overwhelming, but Tony simply puts it down and shoves his chair back, dying for something else to do.

Christ, he’s pathetic. Biting his nails like a frightened child because Steve doesn’t adhere to JARVIS’ algorithm. He seems unable to even settle his eyes on one place, much less settle his mind.

“Kill the music, JARVIS,” Tony says and presses the heel of his hand into his right eye, purple and green spots flashing in his vision. Judas Priest stops at once, Rob Halford’s voice choked off right in the middle of the chorus of ‘Breaking the Law’. Usually, music helps him focus (though it remains a mystery to most of his housemates how Tony manages to concentrate when Metallica is blasting through the speakers loud enough to rattle the glass in the windows).

Ambient sound springs up instead, making Tony snort despite himself. Star Wars soundscape. Tony once upon a time paid a pretty penny to Lucasfilms to get his hands on some of the original sound effects to create it -- it’s one of his go-tos for a bad day.

“Not working, but thanks anyway,” Tony sighs. JARVIS stops the sounds, the workshop now lying in deafening silence save for the faint electrical whirring and the sound of the air ducts.

He hasn’t slept much lately and when he did, there were nightmares. Afghanistan was back, the sand in his teeth and nose, the air hot and stuffy in the day and biting cold in the night. He can still smell the musty, moth-eaten blanket he’d been granted, the cloth itchy and rough against the places where he wasn’t covered in ill-fitting clothing. Always hungry, because they only gave him enough to eat to sustain him. His stomach clamouring for food because in nearly forty years he’d never had to go hungry when he didn’t want to. And that first reactor in his chest, weighing on his sternum, the tissue around it inflamed and angry and sharp, painful stabs in his heart while he recovered from open surgery in a cave. The water is the worst part, reeking of algae and the dregs at the bottom; filling his nose and mouth while his lungs scream for air. There are days when he can’t set foot inside a swimming pool.

Tony shakes himself out of it, phantom grit lingering on his tongue. He tousles his hair, freeing more imaginary sand.

“Sir, would you like me to place a call to Colonel Rhodes or Miss Potts?”

Good old JARVIS and his omnipresent sensors.

“No, no calls to anyone,” Tony sighs and goes back to rubbing his fingers along his arc reactor casing while his gaze flickers over the holoscreen monitoring his vitals. His breathing and heart rate are slightly elevated but nothing to call an ambulance over. Tony doesn’t want Pepper or Rhodey fussing over him and his damaged heart and psyche. Nor does he want their pitiful glances or their reassurance that Steve will be back any minute.

Will he though?

That way lies nothing but madness; but Tony has been known to take the route of destruction. There are a million innocent possibilities why Steve isn’t back yet – the shipments were delayed, he had to wait to get out safely, the debriefing went long, he had to seek out the medical ward for scrapes, he decided to get a head start on paperwork, he ran into someone at SHIELD and forgot the time. 

Or.

Or – Steve could have been found out. Critically wounded and bleeding out faster than he can heal. Captured, bound and locked in a cell or lab to be poked and prodded and beaten. Cut open and taken apart to see if they can put him back together. Countless villains and scientists would salivate at the chance to get their hands on the only successful specimen of Project Rebirth. Others don’t give a hoot about Project Rebirth and Super Soldier Serums; they just hate Captain America and would go to great lengths to kill Steve and make him suffer before that.

The thought of Steve suffering somewhere, alone, without communications settles like ice in Tony’s insides and steals his breath with the force of a punch.

The heart rate on the holoscreen turns red, blinks, beeps. _120 bpm. 134 bpm._ The numbers swim before Tony’s eyes. His hands feel clammy, Tony notices as he grabs the edge of his workbench to prop himself up. But his knees don’t cooperate. Is he having a heart attack? Next thing he knows, he’s sitting on the floor, leaning back against the bench to keep upright.

He can’t breathe but needs to. He wants to fight, but he wants to run. It’s like he’s trying to balance a chair that’s just about to topple over but the feeling doesn’t end. It’s like being held underwater and your body realising there’s no oxygen left in your lungs, that split second of dread before you start thrashing, though the second never ends.

It’s like dying.

Tony has nearly died before. Several times. Slowly, with shrapnel bits working their way through his bloodstream towards his heart while staring Obie in the face. Peacefully, falling from skies and losing consciousness knowing he saved millions of lives in New York. Agonisingly, watching his blood toxicity rise, poisoned by the very thing that keeps him alive. Disbelievingly, hit with an IED and seeing blood blossoming through his crisp white dress shirt.

It’s like all of them and yet it isn’t.

Breathe. He needs to breathe.

* * *

“Tony?”

His name reaches Tony, but it sounds like it’s coming from a mile away or through water.

_Water._

Tony shudders again and resists lifting his face from his knees. That voice is Steve’s voice and if Tony looks up and Steve’s not there after all, his soft tones just a figment of Tony’s imagination -- he might just hurl all over the floor. It’s a miracle he hasn’t done it already.

“Tony?”

Closer this time, decidedly more concerned. It still sounds like Steve.

A hand rests against Tony’s shoulder and Tony jerks away violently like he’s been burned, banging into the half-assembled car engine he’s slumped down next to.

“Captain Rogers, if I may advise: Mister Stark hasn’t responded well to physical contact in the past if he’s been in a state of...heightened anxiety,” JARVIS speaks at a low volume and Tony is one second away from hysterically laughing or crying, or possibly both, because if JARVIS says Steve is here then Tony isn’t hallucinating and Steve is safe.

But it also means Steve is witnessing this pitiable state and if that isn’t the cherry on the shit sundae that’s been this past week he doesn’t know what is.

“He’s had a panic attack?” Steve asks and Tony feels him shift back. _He’s giving you space_ , says the logical half of his brain. _He thinks you’re weak,_ says the traitorous part.

“Mister Stark does not favour this description,” JARVIS replies and Tony can hear it -- if JARVIS were capable of rolling his eyes he’d be doing it.

This is not a panic attack. JARVIS hasn’t been allowed to say ‘panic attack’ since 2009. Starks don’t have panic attacks. 

“The hell,” Steve mutters under his breath and he still smells of gunpowder and smoke.

Listening to JARVIS and Steve, Tony hasn’t even noticed how his heartbeat slowed down again and that his lungs allowed him to breathe properly.

“Tony,” Steve tries once more. “Can you hear me?”

“I’m not deaf,” Tony rasps and hates how hoarse his voice is. For the first time, he lifts his head and looks at Steve. Steve, who’s still wearing SHIELD’s black combat fatigues while he crouches an arm length away, gun holsters slung across his chest and shoulders. Mud spatters his boots and trousers up to his shins, a few stray spots have made it to Steve’s bare forearms. Steve’s carefully arranged hair has gone a little astray and there’s a cut on his cheekbone, already healing. It’ll be gone in a few hours.

“No,” Steve agrees. “But you looked like you weren’t all there. You still don’t.”

Tony can imagine how he looks: ashen, clammy, his hair curling at the nape and plastered to his forehead. Pinched look around his eyes. And his hands still shake.

“I’m fine,” Tony says and sounds weak to his own ears. He balls his hand into a fist to hide the tremor.

“Tony…”

“I’m fine,” Tony repeats and hears Steve sigh just loud enough for Tony to pick it up. Great job, Stark. Piss him off, why don’t you.

“Wait here,” Steve says and gets up. Tony swallows a wave of panic and the need to plead Steve to stay and not leave him here alone, even if he’s being pathetic and a sorry excuse for a superhero.

But Steve doesn’t leave the workshop, he merely wanders over to Tony’s little kitchenette and pulls open the fridge. DUM-E beeps with curiosity and scuttles over to see what Steve is doing on his turf. Steve pulls out a carton of milk, twists off the cap and sniffs the contents, all too aware that some things remain in Tony’s fridge for so long they’re three days away from becoming sentient blobs of bacteria ready to step up as a new Avengers villain. 

“Fetch the honey for me, please?” Steve asks DUM-E, and Tony can’t help a smile tugging at his lips that Steve says ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to his bots and treats them like he would a person without being prompted to.

DUM-E beeps and opens cabinets and fetches a squeeze bottle. Tony is fairly sure the honey isn’t on that shelf usually.

“Not quite,” Steve says as he takes the bottle. “That’s Teriyaki glaze, DUM-E.”

“Useless hunk of circuits,” Tony snorts.

Steve throws him a smirk over his shoulder while he fishes for the actual honey. “And yet, you still haven’t donated him to community college.” He holds out the container for DUM-E’s camera to see and _possibly_ learn.

Tony rubs his eyes and runs his fingers through his hair – he feels less wound up than he did a few minutes ago, the worst of the feeling of impending doom has subsided, but so has the adrenaline. The exhaustion is creeping up on him now, making him weary and shaky.

“Drink,” he hears next to him and looks up to find Steve crouching there, a steaming mug in his hand, held out for Tony to grasp.

“Hot milk with honey,” Tony snorts. “What am I, five?”

“You’re not getting caffeine or alcohol,” Steve says with a shrug and sits down next to Tony, “so it was either this or chamomile tea.”

“Ew,” Tony grumbles and sips at his milk. Jarvis used to give him hot milk before bed when Tony was little and had trouble settling down. The thought of Jarvis causes an ache in Tony’s chest and he leans to the side against Steve who relaxes and wraps an arm around Tony’s shoulders. The proximity isn’t overwhelming anymore, but the shame has resurfaced. Tony doesn’t want Steve to see him like this, weak and shaking over the stupid notion that something might have happened to Steve.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Steve asks.

“No.”

“Tony–”

“Drop it,” Tony sighs. “Please.”

Steve gives him that look with the frown and the narrowed eyes that says _for now_ , but it’s good enough for Tony because that’s all he’s got in him in the way of arguing right now.

“I ruined the evening,” Tony says out of the blue after a few moments of heavy silence pass between them.

“Come on,” Steve murmurs and turns his head to press his lips to Tony’s temple, chiding Tony without much heat behind it.

“No, I had this whole thing planned out,” Tony sighs and pushes the glass of milk to the side. “A bath, tapas from that Spanish place three blocks away, bottle of wine, a massage and a movie – the whole shebang. Now we’re crouching on the floor because I can’t get my shit together.”

“The movie’s still gonna be there once we get up,” Steve hums and plays with the short hairs at Tony’s nape.

Tony shudders and closes his eyes – the adrenaline has finally crashed on him and leaves him running on empty. He feels exhausted and at the same time too keyed up and oversensitive to relax. The fear still sits in his gut, balled tight and burning hot. Putting on the armour and diving a hundred feet might make it go away, but right now, Tony would rather cut off a limb than be more than an arm’s length away from Steve. In fact, he wants Steve to make it all go away.

Tony hauls in Steve by one of the many straps that come with the combat gear and silences Steve’s ‘oof’ with a kiss, dragging his fingers across the kevlar. They’re sticking Captain America -- _Steve Rogers_ \-- into SHIELD’s sub-par armour. Tony should work on a new version of Steve’s stealth suit, making sure Steve’s protected when he gets cabin fever and starts gallivanting around the globe for Fury.

Steve’s gloved fingers digging into the tense muscles at the base of his skull stop Tony’s brain going into overdrive with calculations about bullet angles and kevlar alloys and realigns itself to focus on the warmth of Steve’s skin where it’s pressed against Tony’s neck and seeps through his threadbare t-shirt. Tony’s mind fills with a fierce sense of _want._

Derisive statements about Tony’s sex life have been made by the dozen, be it by the press or straight to his face but he’s never been ashamed to admit that he likes sex and likes having a lot of it. What most people get wrong every time is that Tony prefers the throwaway one night stands to longlasting monogamy.

According to Rhodey and Pepper, Tony is sort of awful at intimacy despite being the most hopeless romantic they’ve ever met. Tony is inclined to agree when he feels like being introspective and honest about it. One night stands are just easier; they don’t require more than trusting the other isn’t out to kill you and save you awkward conversations about emotions.

Sex isn’t awkward for Tony. It’s one of the few kinds of intimacy that don’t make him tongue-tied or ready to run. He loves making his partners feel good and watch them come apart because of him. He loves coming apart for a partner. With Steve, Tony has reached an entirely new level of pleasure in giving and surrendering. Steve just knows when he has to push Tony up against a wall in a flurry of _hard, fast, rough_ or when he needs to spread him out on the bed and make him forget everything outside the room for a few hours. 

Sex is one thing that quiets his overactive brain, makes it stop running a mile a minute and focus on at least thirteen different, increasingly complex problems at once. It’s a mind-blowing high and a peaceful coming down after. Tangled in sheets and Steve’s arms there’s nothing but absolute quiet going on in his head. He’s never told Steve how much he loves being there with him, how much he loves _Steve_ for being there.

For all he’s trained in smooth talking and grand speeches, he’s terrible at using his words.

“Take me to bed,” he murmurs against Steve’s wrist as he leans his face into it, seeking out more skin contact. “Please.”

Steve frowns. He has many different ways of frowning and Tony has spent considerable time cataloguing them. This is the cautious frown. A small crease between his eyebrows and Steve’s eyes narrow just a bit to sharpen his gaze as he’s trying to suss out the other person’s intentions.

“Because you want to or because you’re trying to dodge my asking questions?” Steve asks.

It stings a little, but Tony guesses he deserves that. He does these things: distracting Steve with kisses, blowjobs and --on one memorable occasion-- with explosions.

“I want to,” Tony answers and bites his lower lip before he amends: “I need to.” He means _you_ and trusts Steve to hear what he can’t quite bring himself to say.

Steve regards him for a long moment, his eyes searching Tony’s face before he seems to find what he’s looking for and nods.

“I need a shower,” Steve says and rests his hand against Tony’s cheek, thumb rubbing at a smudge of whatever Tony managed to get on his face while he was trying to work. “Do you want to join me?”

The invitation is open, allowing Tony to say no if he doesn’t want to go near water or if he needs some more space after all. They can just shower or...do more than that. Steve is letting him decide.

Tony thinks of lathering Steve with his own body wash (a petty thing to do but Tony wants to purr with satisfaction when Steve smells like him), of having his back pressed against the tiled wall while Steve crowds him, of kissing Steve -- hot and deep and lazy-- under the spray of water, of having Steve’s hands run over every inch of skin; and he shudders a little, pressing his cheek into Steve’s palm.

“Yes,” Tony whispers, eyes closed to focus on the movement of Steve’s thumb across his cheek.

“Okay,” Steve agrees and drops his hand from Tony’s face, loosely circling Tony’s wrists instead. “Shower, then we’re watching the movie and eat -- in bed and then,” Steve pauses and pins Tony with his gaze, “then you’re going to tell me about your day.”

It’s a thinly veiled promise that Steve’s not going to let this one go. Not permanently. But he gives Tony an out if Tony can’t speak about it yet.

For the first time since he’s been having these episodes, Tony feels like he might want to try.

“Okay,” Tony says softly and lets Steve pull him back up from the floor and flush against his chest. “I will.”

Steve smiles.

“Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, viennasunrise! I hope I did your prompt justice :)
> 
> Title taken from [Bleeding Heart](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/58332) by Carmen Giménez Smith.


End file.
